Disclaimer: This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes. All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. I own nothing but my name.

A/N: I'M ALIVE! Really and truly... My heartfelt apologies to those of you who have patiently and not patiently awaited updates (or lack thereof). Time and circumstance this past year have simply not cooperated. And there have been some weird circumstances, let me tell you. Please call off the search parties and I am BEGGING whoever cast the hex to take it back. For love of the Valar, please take it back. I've had everything from illness and broken bones, to being locked in a castle and getting stuck in a freezer. Yes—a FREEZER. This does not happen to non-hexed people.

'Cantrip' and 'marinus stiria,' as well as a new tale, will be updated the second week of January—I promise!!!! I thank those of you who continue to read and review. I hadn't checked my email in a while and was completely overwhelmed by the outpouring. You're all fantastic and I love you to death. sniff

Anyways... so this is what truly happened:

Playing With Fire  
A revised version of 'Comeuppance'

She danced lightly between the trees, red hair falling in ringlets about her waist. She had always wanted to have red hair for a day—just to see what it was like. It had been perfectly straight at first, too, but then she realized perhaps her curls weren't so bad after all (even if they did tend to fuzz). It added character.

Her eyes, a green so startling it was nearly obscene, sparkled as she threw back her head and laughed. She liked the green—thought it suited her well.

Lifting her bare arms skyward, she spun in another glorious circle. It had been ages since she had danced as thus—perhaps ten years? And then she had accidentally stepped on the end of her sock mid-spin. The resulting plummet to the concrete floor of the basement had been quite painful. So had dragging herself up the stairs and attempting to explain to her mother why, exactly she was sobbing, and "where on Earth did that bruise on the side of your face come from?"

Ahh, childhood.

Perfect lips twisted into a decidedly arrogant smirk. She snickered. Next on her list? Seduction was beginning to sound awfully fun. The mental list (so far) went as followed:
1.) Legolas,
2.) Elrohir,
3.) Faramir,

and

4.) Gandalf.

Yes, Gandalf.

'Because,' she thought with a delightful pang of wickedness, 'No one ever goes after the Wizard.' Even Gimli had gotten his share of THEM, but Gandalf... Well, that would certainly liven things up a bit, wouldn't it?

She paused to pet a baby fawn that happened to wander by. Under normal circumstances, given her situation, she would have to worry about The Random Army of Passing Orcs. But she was in Elrond's realm, and sometimes canon knowledge aided even those with the most evil intentions.

Deftly leaping to the tree branches, unhindered by long flowing skirt or hair, she struck up a lively tune concerning her many virtues and wiles. It had been she who convinced Elrond to give the One Ring to the eagle Gwaihir. She had been the one to utterly divert the course of history within Middle-earth. The great Windlord had simply taken the Ring, flown over Mount Doom, opened his talons, and plop! No more Ring.

Sure, Boromir was still alive, and if Aragorn even attempted to claim the throne, war would break out in Gondor. So what if Arwen would never marry her beloved because he wasn't king? Or that Rohan was still miffed by Gondor and vise versa. Ah, and that Theoden was still possessed by Saruman, nobody knew what an Ent was, Galadriel hadn't passed any tests, Gollum wouldn't stop moaning and gollum-ing about My Preciousssssss...

At least Frodo had all ten fingers.

'Glorfindel,' she thought, adding yet another name to the List of Seduction. No wonder THEY all landed in Middle-earth. This was fun. She paused and laughed most devilishly.

"YOU."

Bryn-Aman (for that was her name, both parts apparently translating to "hill" in English, as the Elvish Name Generator had seemingly backfired), fell gracefully from the tree as The Voice shook Arda to its very core. Even the air trembled. Pushing back a ridiculous amount of red locks, she curiously looked about her. The strange silence permeating the forest told her she had not been imagining things. "Uhm," she tentatively began, still managing to keep the unnatural Elven sweetness in her tone, "yes?"

There was a rumble of thunder. The sky turned steely grey. "HOW DARE YOU!"

Bryn-Aman gaped skyward. This was an unexpected happening. "Hello?"

"THE LAWS OF CANON ARE NOT TO BE ABUSED, PUNY LITTLE WRITER. YOU DARE DEFY OUR WORLD? YOU DARE TO VIOLATE THE WORKINGS OF THE UNIVERSE—THE BINDS WE VALAR HAVE SO TIRELESSLY WORKED TO CREATE?"

Bryn-Aman clapped her slender hands in delight. "A Valar! I'm talking to a Valar! Which one are you? Wait, no, no—"She brought a pale hand to her flawless forehead in a dramatic pose of thought. "Don't tell me. You're... You're... Manwë? Manwë, right?"

The Voice choked. "BLOODY VOID—IT'S VALA ! VALA, YOU IDIOT. NOT PLURAL. AND FOR ILUVATAR'S SAKE, MANWE ISN'T THE ONLY ONE UP HERE."

"Ahh." Bryn-Aman nodded sagely. "Yes, there's also Morgoth and whatshisface who rides around on the ship with the Silmaril. Oh hey, can I ask you something? How on earth do you pronounce 'Maedhros'?"

There followed what sounded strangely akin to a great intake of air. The wind whistled dangerously and then unnerving stillness once more settled across the forest. Bryn-Aman squinted skyward, patiently awaiting the Valar—no, Vala's—answer. She did not mind waiting. After all, she did have an eternity. 'And immortality,' she thought, 'is cool like that.'

Five seconds later, the Vala replied. It came in the form of a lightening bolt: swift, dazzling, and final.

Elrohir found the smoldering black scar several days later, as he and Elladan wandered through the green woodlands. "What make you of this?" he asked, lowering to inspect the burn.

Elladan frowned and shook his head. "I know naught—but Legolas has made mention of similar marks within Mirkwood."

"Mayhap Mithrandir was testing his staff." Elrohir stood with a graceful shrug. "Strange," he said, angling his head to one side, "it has the shape not unlike that of a female..."

Elladan emitted an airy snort. "You would view it as such." Folding his arms across his chest, he too tilted his head to one side. "Nay, I rather fancy it an oliphaunt."

The sons of Elrond were, however, given no further time to ponder the smoldering mystery. Boromir of Gondor had taken offence to Aragorn's 'Heir of Isildur' claim, and as things stood, Gondor was on the brink of war with the Rangers and all who supported them. Rohan had, of course, sided with the Rangers—had being the key word here, as Theoden King beheaded a particularly vocal Aragorn supporter (fellow by the name of Eomer) last week.

Elrohir squinted. From this angle, the burn mark looked like a distorted sheep. He shook his head, voicing a bemused, "Hmm."
Some mysteries were best left unexplained.